Life Class (46 page)

‘What do
I
think? If you
want
another one …?’

‘I mean … are there any particular veg you’d
like
me to grow?’

Fran stopped chopping the onions and looked at him. Had she heard right?

‘Go on, Mum, you know,’ Mel prompted. ‘You can’t have forgotten already. Honestly, Dad, she’s so forgetful. She was just talking about not being able to find them in the shops. What are they called again?

Endive and radicchio?’

‘Oh, OK. Good thought. I’ll look them up online, see if I can find any info; conditions, soil, and so on. Perhaps we’d need a cold frame or a greenhouse.’ He squeezed his daughter’s shoulders. ‘And how are you, cherub? Had a good time in Painchester?’

‘Yeah. I was just telling Mum. While I was out I met this really nice guy. Actually, talking to him made me think about what
I’m
going to do. If I’ve not left it too late I think I might apply to Strouley college, you know, to retake my A-levels.’ Melanie was interrupted by her Blackberry giving a ‘message received’ chirrup. As she rapidly clicked through the buttons, Fran and Peter raised their eyebrows at one another.

Today was a day of coincidences and strange conjunctions, Fran thought. When she’d come in and had that conversation with Peter up in the spare bedroom, a similar idea had taken root. Why couldn’t
she
go back to college and redo her art degree? The more the thought swirled around her brain the more she liked it. She could do it from home. There were plenty of colleges and universities offering degree courses within easy travelling distance. But she needed to look into it, see what the provision was these days for mature students and how much it might cost before she sprang the idea on husband and daughter.

Scrolling through the messages, Melanie’s eyes grew wider. ‘Oh, yuck! Hey, guess what?’ She glanced up at her parents with an exaggerated grimace. ‘Dom’s just got in. He lodges with this sculptor bloke up on Bull’s Hill. I won’t read out
exactly
what he’s texted, but he says, like, there’s evidence his landlord’s got company. There’s a car parked outside. You know, a yellow KA, like Aunty Dory’s! But there’s no one around … except the bedroom door’s shut, and Dom’s just heard noises! Eurrgh!’ Melanie began to giggle.

Another set of connections clicked together in Fran’s brain. She put the knife carefully on the chopping board, sat down, and lowered her head into her hands. ‘Oh my God!’ she muttered.

Chapter Forty-seven - Dory

Arms around each other’s waists, it hadn’t taken long to get from the barn to the house. Just outside the rear door Stefan stopped and pressed her back. Palms flat against the stone wall either side of her head, he leant in and kissed her again, languorously insinuating his tongue between her lips. If his claim to be out of practice was true, he was remembering fast.

‘Where’s Dom?’ Dory asked huskily as soon she was in possession of her mouth again.

‘Don’t know,’ Stefan said. ‘I’ve been in the barn most of the day. He could be downstairs watching TV. He could be painting miniatures in his room, or playing computer games. Or he could be fast asleep.’

‘At five in the afternoon?’

‘Never underestimate teenagers’ capacity to sleep. He could be out, of course.’

‘In Strouley or …?’ The implication of her question was not lost on him.

‘I don’t ask. It’s down to him now, isn’t it? I’ve done everything I can. I can’t stand guard.’

They began to whisper as soon as they got inside – the back stairs weren’t wide enough to ascend in tandem, yet they were both loath to release the other. Their attempt to creep only made their ascent more awkward, and the fact they were trying to be quiet infected them both with giggles. The more they tried to repress their amusement, the more hilarious the situation seemed. They stopped and kissed several times, snorting and spluttering, before reaching the landing and pushing through his bedroom door. Three paces in and they fell onto his disarrayed duvet.

Suddenly sober, Stefan said, ‘I don’t really know why we’re trying to be quiet. Dom’s a big boy. I doubt he’d be embarrassed.’

‘It’s not as if he’s inexperienced himself.’ Dory stared at the ceiling in wonder that she should be here in this position. ‘I feel totally drunk.’

He sat up and leant over her, pushing her hair back off her forehead. ‘What were you drinking at Michael’s garden party thing?’

‘There was champagne, Buck’s Fizz, or Kir Royal … at a price. But all Fran and I drank was tea, because we were driving.’

‘Very abstemious.’ He was looking down at her, stroking his hand over her face again, as if learning her features. He followed the line of her jaw then drew his hand down the column of her neck and fitted the pad of his thumb into the hollow at her throat. Stroking along the curved edge of her clavicle, he eased his hand under the strap of the camisole and cupped it over her shoulder. She watched his face, his intent expression, almost hypnotised. ‘Would you like a drink now? Make the illusion a reality,’ he asked.

‘No. I want to be fully aware of everything.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘You’re sure about that? I can’t guarantee my performance. It’ll be ten out of ten for effort but style may fall a bit short.’

Her answering laugh was a series of shuddering gasps, as his hand moved from her shoulder to her bare leg, sliding up under her skirt. She shook her head at his self-deprecation and reached up, twining her arms around his neck. His eyelids drooped and for minutes they were lost in another daze of kissing, which grew wilder and wetter. Her skirt was pushed up, the camisole pulled down. Unsuccessfully, she tried to unbutton his faded denim shirt. He wrested her hands away and dragged it open, revealing the buttons to be popper studs. She made an attempt on the zip of his jeans but again was foiled. Instead of a zip, there were buttons.

‘You’re wearing trick clothes,’ she said, and then wondered where he was going as he turned and left the room. Moments later, he was back.

‘Where …?’ she began, but he laid his finger over her mouth. Nothing more was said. The only noise was the rustle of clothes coming off and the creak of the bed as they writhed and wrestled, striving for maximum contact. Knees scuffed, elbows jabbed, teeth clashed. Noses got in the way and mouths squashed into unexpected corners. Damp trails crossed exposed skin. Each touch tormented, yet was achingly missed as soon as it ceased.

In a sudden moment of calm, after Dory had captured his hands and pushed them back over his head, she gazed down at him. It was a long time since she’d been in this position with a man, a very long time since she had been with anyone other than Malcolm. In all honesty, she couldn’t say she really knew the man who looked up at her, and yet here she was in his bed.

Narrowing her eyes, his body became a pattern of black and white, each patch of dark clearly delineated and surprisingly symmetrical. She stooped, fastening her mouth to his and their tongues played tug of war. She breathed in his breath, chewed and sucked on his lips, buried her face into the hollow of each armpit in turn, scenting and licking. Her nipples rubbed against his chest, sending electric shocks zipping through her nervous system and charging her arousal to almost unbearable heights.

Then suddenly, he was struggling to sit up. ‘Wait, wait!’ he hissed gruffly, kissing her and tumbling her onto her back as he wriggled out from under her legs. ‘I’ve got to …’ He sat, stooped over, on the side of the bed. His head drooped. ‘Oh shit!’ She ran her fingers down the knobs of his spine, to the crease of his buttocks. He still muttered to himself as he bent lower. There was the rustle and snap of tissues being dragged from a box. When he turned, all urgency had dissipated. Lifting her hand to his mouth, he kissed it. Stefan fell back, his head on the pillow beside hers.

‘What did I say about style? Nul point!’ Turning to look at her, his expression was full of regretful apology. ‘Seems I can’t cope with the condom moment,’ he added. ‘And it wasn’t even mine. I had to raid Dom’s store.’

Instead of telling him it didn’t matter, that she couldn’t care less who the original owner of the condom was, a surge of laughter began pushing up from her diaphragm. Desperate not to offend him, she covered her face with her hands and held her breath, trying to repress the urgent vibrations.

‘Are you all right?’ The sudden concern in his voice was touching, but it only made her suppressed amusement all the more irresistible. And then she was openly giggling, her shoulders heaving helplessly. Looking through her fingers she saw only surprise in his face. She hoped he wouldn’t be hurt by her hilarity, but it had acquired a life of its own. Curled and shaking, she turned away from him, trying to regain control. She wondered where the laughter had come from. Then, thankfully, she heard his laugh join hers.

As she opened her eyes, the section of blue sky she could see through the window had deepened. Her flailing hand felt nothing beside her. Dory turned. She was alone in the bed. Footfalls were coming up the stairs. Carrying two mugs, Stefan pushed through the door. His dark green robe was thin, and hairy with unravelling threads. She sat up, pulling the duvet up with her.

‘Tea,’ he said. ‘Might be a bit musty. It’s been open in the cupboard for I don’t know how long. Dom and I don’t drink much.’

‘That’s kind. But you should have woken me earlier. How long have I slept?’

‘After my lamentable performance when you’d laughed yourself into a coma, I decided the best thing was to join you. So, I don’t know. I’ve been asleep as well. Perhaps a couple of hours?’

‘I wasn’t laughing
at
you.’

‘That’s what they all say.’

‘Honestly!’

He gave her the mug of tea. ‘I hope you don’t take sugar.’

‘No. It’s fine. Nice,’ she added, taking a sip. She now noticed the subdued throb of a baseline. ‘I can hear music.’

‘If that’s what you call it,’ Stefan said. ‘Dom’s home. I haven’t seen him but I’m sure he won’t burst in on us. He understands about privacy.’

‘You don’t
really
think I was laughing at you?’ Dory said, still concerned that she’d offended him. ‘I was laughing at the situation. Everything seemed so absurd. Perhaps it was relief. What I told you earlier had been preying on my mind and the release of tension …’

‘Don’t worry.’ He sat down. ‘Laughter was the best response. Pity would have been harder to bear.’

Still unsure if he was teasing or if there was a germ of seriousness there, Dory put her half-drunk tea on the bedside cabinet. She lay back against the pillow and raised her arms in invitation.

‘There’s something I need to talk to you about …’ The sudden seriousness in his expression transmuted into something else. Whatever he’d wanted to say was overtaken by another, more pressing imperative. ‘Perhaps it can wait.’

Dory agreed. The time for analysis and post-mortems could come later.

Without the former urgency of passion it was disconcerting to be the focus of such intense scrutiny. Before, she’d been brazen, but now she felt shy. His hands began to travel over her in long, exploratory strokes, as if he were fascinated by each tiny detail of her anatomy. He caressed her belly in an appreciative sweep, then planted a kiss into the hollow beneath each pelvic bone. He touched his mouth to her eyelids, to her cheek, brushing back and forth as if scenting her skin. She adored the soft scrape of his beard against her face. She adored the sensation against other parts of her body. He gazed into her eyes, watching her response as his hand slid down, unhurriedly traversing the contours of her breasts and belly. Her eyelids drooped and she sensed him sit up and turn away, heard the sound of tearing. Soon he was back, gently moving her legs apart.

He began to manipulate her with a gentle accuracy. Even had she wanted to, she couldn’t have spoken. She felt drugged – eyes tight shut, mind detached – contemplating the sensations he aroused. Against her eyelids a memory replayed. Again she was watching his damp hands as they investigated every crevice of the nude figure. He kneaded and sculpted, his fingers exploring, touching, smoothing, massaging, digging into the greasy clay. Abruptly, the physical and mental clicked back into synch. Her pulse quickened, her breathing grew ragged and gasping. The sensations were tightening, twisting, focusing into a crescendo, then the maddening touch stopped. Dazedly, Dory heard her own strangulated bleat of loss, but detached from her, as if it were someone else making those piteous, needy sounds.

She was aware that Stefan had knelt up on the bed. She opened her eyes and saw him staring down at her. His face was dark and shadowed, his expression intent as his hands moved over her, almost as if trying to memorise the forms of her body. Dory closed her eyes again, abandoning herself to his touch. He lifted her hips and drew her towards him till her body was tilted, thighs straddling his lap. Leaning forward, his hands cupped her buttocks. She felt again a slight lift, and then her body was opening to his. With the connection, she heard his long exhalation of breath, when at last he slid deep inside her. Her orgasm discharged instantly, sweeping her with a sweet quenching pleasure. But while she was still being lapped by the aftershocks, she sensed the profound ecstatic pulse of his. As all tension was spent, his taut body relaxed against hers and they lay, skin to skin, their breathing growing slower and quieter.

‘Oh, wow,’ she breathed after moments had passed. ‘That was …’

Stefan lifted his head and looked down at her. He raised his eyebrows.

Lost for words, Dory added, ‘Phew,’ and then, ‘Nice. That was nice.’

‘Not a word my father allowed. Nice is a paltry, mealy-mouthed word, he would say.’ Seeing the creases deepen at the corners of his eyes, she relaxed. She was beginning to know when Stefan was serious. ‘But nice will do. I’m just glad I was able to redeem myself.’

Dory woke with the dappled morning sunlight on her face. Full consciousness and recall of what had happened the previous evening sifted into her brain slowly with the realisation she was in an unfamiliar bed where the musky scents of sex still lingered. The room was uncluttered and utilitarian. No need for clutter in a big house like this one. Most of the furniture was unremarkable apart from one of those extraordinary painted wardrobes. Of course, it wasn’t the first time she’d looked at this room. She’d seen it before Christmas, with no premonition she would be in bed with the owner in six months’ time. What was going to happen now, she wondered, rolling back and looking up at the ugly light fitting. For someone so artistic, he had a blind spot about his living arrangements. Someone should take him in hand. Immediately she batted back the unformulated implication that that someone would be her, or that she could expect anything long-term in this relationship. Live for the moment, my girl, she told herself.